


tea, crepes, cake, and punch

by terriblyfond



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, M/M, idk this is all just very sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-03 15:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19466992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terriblyfond/pseuds/terriblyfond
Summary: In which Crowley finds himself attempting to cook.





	tea, crepes, cake, and punch

**1\. Darjeeling Tea with Milk and Sugar**

“Oh, _lord,_ Crowley, not the microwave!”

Crowley, holding two mugs of water, had just miracled one shiny, sleek, and very out-of-place microwave into Aziraphale’s bookshop. The demon scowled. 

“Oh, come o-o-on, angel.”

“Even more hopeless than I could have imagined.” Aziraphale tutted, though he was already breaking into a small grin. “At least use a kettle?” 

Aziraphale was no avid cook himself, but he quite enjoyed brewing tea and cocoa by hand. He was positively charmed by the ritual-like novelty of the process (just as he enjoyed wearing glasses even though his eyesight was angelically perfect, tying his tartan bowtie every morning, etc). Eating or drinking something made by hand tasted better somehow, he insisted. Meanwhile, Crowley usually miracled tea into existence without much thought. 

And finally, with the slightest air of superiority, the angel had teased the demon for not being able to even boil a bit of water by himself. 

After a bit of back and forth over whether or not an electric kettle was an acceptable option, Crowley finally managed to boil a pot of water (“I don’t see the point in waiting around for some water to get hot”) and unceremoniously dunked a tea bag in each mug. Cream and two sugars for the angel, a bit of cream for the demon. In the past, he would have refused to drink tea or coffee that contained any contaminants. But these days, Crowley took a little cream with both.

Aziraphale, settled in a weathered armchair, happily accepted the tea when Crowley passed it over. The demon draped himself over the neighboring sofa, watching as Aziraphale cradled a winged mug of Darjeeling. For a while, the angel ran his fingers along the cup's hot ceramic surface. 

Crowley truly appreciated his sunglasses in moments like these. At a restaurant, he could hide behind dark lenses, eat a few bites, and put on a good show of looking bored for a solid couple of hours. In actuality, with the angel happily distracted by a scrumptious something or other, Crowley used the time to stare. All to catch those glimpses of unfiltered contentment that escaped when Aziraphale thought Crowley wasn’t paying much attention.

Even more sparingly, vividly, Aziraphale sometimes had this expression of absolutely cherishing something. And today, that something happened to be a pitiful mug of tea. Crowley felt a sort of tightness creeping up his chest as he watched Aziraphale smiling into the winged mug. And so, the snake was caught. 

It started with two cups of Darjeeling.

* * *

**2\. Crepes with Sliced Strawberries and Fresh Cream**

How hard could it be?

No matter how insistently his laziness tried to stamp the impulse down, Crowley kept fantasizing. Sushi? No, the idea of handling raw fish wasn’t too appealing. 

Crepes. Crowley gave an exaggerated sound of disgust, to no one in particular, when he caught himself smiling at the distant, centuries-old memory. 

How hard could it be? 

So, on one lazy Sunday afternoon, Crowley was stirring up a loose batter in Aziraphale’s shop. A portable burner with a skillet was set up on a table. Aziraphale himself was perched nervously on a chair, some feet away. 

“Please don’t burn my shop down,” the angel whispered anxiously, “I really don’t think I could take a second time.”

Crowley hadn’t heard the angel’s plea, now mostly focused on slicing strawberries. This was only somewhat harder than he anticipated. Only somewhat. 

The phone rang, and Aziraphale hurried to answer it, almost relieved to be freed of witnessing what might be a potential disaster in the making. Crowley could hear the angel speaking animatedly to whoever was on the other end. 

“Crowley, my dear!”

The demon looked up. He had just dumped a whole carton of heavy cream into another bowl. Was this too much cream? Was he supposed to add anything before whipping? Was that brown liquid stuff supposed to be in there? He couldn’t remember. Never mind. 

“It’s a little last minute, but Anathema just called to say she’s in London, and to see if we might have some tea together.” Azirapale said, looking pleased, “And well, I thought, since we’re already having a little bit of a tea party here, that she might join us.” 

Crowley turned, still holding his bowl of heavy cream, aghast. 

“Oh, I know. I’m sorry, I really should have asked you.” Aziraphale continued, not sounding particularly remorseful, “But I thought, we haven’t seen her in such a long time, and she really is such a lovely young lady. Don’t you think?”

“This was supposed to be just-, I mean… You know! The two of us? Fraternizing?” Crowley protested, gesturing with a whisk and giving a dramatic toss of his hair (which, along with his sunglasses, was now faintly dusted with flour). 

“Oh, come now Crowley, one extra crepe? For a dear friend?” Aziraphale smiled.

“You’re the only ‘dear friend’ I- ” Crowley muttered bitterly under his breath, again half-gagging at his own sappy thought. But he turned back to his now fairly disastrous-looking work station with a compliant grunt. 

———

Anathema Device, her eyebrows raised, was watching Crowley from across the room as the demon poured a ladle of batter into a hot skillet. She had been paging through a dusty and intriguing tome that Aziraphale had excitedly brought out for her, but this show was too entertaining (and distracting) to miss. 

She leaned over to Aziraphale, and spoke in a low voice.

“Have you ever read about, you know, love languages?” 

Aziraphale looked up from his own reading, adjusting his glasses. “What do you mean, my dear?” 

“You know, all this.” Anathema laughed, gesturing to Crowley, who was now cursing quietly as he attempted to scrape some burnt crepe off of the pan. 

Aziraphale paused thoughtfully, turning to watch Crowley as well. He was uncomprehending for a pause, trying to remember…then flushed. 

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not that, you know, that could never…” He looked back down to his book and coughed, readjusting his glasses again with a slightly pained expression. 

"That particular text isn't very scientific, I must say." he continued, coughing again, still red. 

Anathema groaned and rolled her eyes. So this is how it was. Two idiots. In a tree. 

———

Aziraphale had miracled the table clean, and was pouring tea for the three of them. Three surprisingly passable-looking crepes were laid out for each of them, generously topped with whipped cream and glistening strawberries.

Crowley settled into his seat, ignoring his own crepe. Now it was time to watch for, perhaps, a little glimmer. 

Aziraphale’s eyes were shining as he gazed appreciatively down at his plate. Crowley could feel his chest tightening again. The plating hadn’t been too bad at least. He tried not to think about the somewhat burnt edges he’d hidden under a great dollop of whipped cream. No matter, he’d given the ugliest crepe to Anathema anyway. Crowley watched as the angel gingerly, tenderly cut a piece of the strawberry crepe, lifted it to his mouth, chewed, and… 

Aziraphale’s expression, still pleasant, stiffened a little.

Anathema spoke first, her mouth full. “Crowley…did you, um…use a recipe?”

Crowley, suddenly aware that he might have been staring a bit too openly, busied himself by cutting into his own crepe. 

“No? Why, should I have?” he said casually.

Aziraphale coughed lightly. 

“I watched one of those, you know, overhead cooking things that’s all the rage now. Got the general idea.” Crowley continued briskly. 

In fact, he had watched one of those overhead cooking things at 5x speed. True to his nature as the commended creator of social media, his attention span these days was quite short. After cursing himself for influencing the current trend of maddeningly text-heavy, diary-style cooking blogs, he’d skipped his way through a couple of YouTube videos. 

“There’s usually recipes that come with those kinds of videos. You know, ingredient lists, amounts…" Anathema replied mildly. 

“Oh really? I didn’t notice.” Crowley replied cooly. 

“ _Extremely_ salty.”

Crowley looked up from his now sawed-to-pieces crepe. 

Aziraphale was wiping his mouth and grimacing slightly, but amusement played in his eyes. The angel had, with some effort, eaten the entire crepe. 

“Crowley, dear, valiant effort. But I’m afraid you’ve salted these crepes like the Dead Sea herself.”

* * *

**3\. Double Chocolate Birthday Cake**

It was well into week two of Crowley-avoids-Aziraphale-and-the-entirety-of-society. When he wasn’t lying on the cool, dark tile of his flat, scrolling mindlessly on his phone, the demon was viscerally writhing at the memory of terrible, salty, strawberry crepes. 

_I’m never eating again. I’m never cooking again. Never ever._

He had picked up his phone a single time, for Aziraphale, only to immediately hang up and stalk away to scream at his plants. 

Another day had passed into evening. It had started to rain. Crowley, ever dramatic, was sulking in a corner chair, drinking, and harassing some idiot politician on social media. 

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Crowley ignored it. 

The knocking grew more insistent. 

He heard a muffled voice call through the door. 

“Crowley!” 

It was Anathema. Why was she back in London? 

“Please, Crowley. It’s about Aziraphale…!” Her voice had a note of nervous concern. 

Crowley’s brows furrowed, and he sprung lightly to his feet. Discarding his drink, he padded across the flat in a few swift steps. He paused just a moment to slide his sunglasses on, before swinging the door open. 

What Crowley met was the nozzle end of a large, bright yellow spray bottle, pointed directly at his face. Anathema was smiling sweetly in the hallway, bottle in hand. 

“What are you playing at, witch.” The demon said slowly, drawing out each word. 

“Holy water Crowley!” Anathema, her hair slightly wet from the rain, was practically giddy. “I heard you were avoiding the entire planet these days, so I thought I might take you out tonight, to go have some fun!” 

“You wouldn’t.” Crowley said dryly, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the plastic spray bottle. 

Anathema’s grin widened. 

“Oh, I think I would.” She replied pleasantly. 

He had underestimated many things about Anathema. Her curiosity, persistence, prankishness, access to holy water, and unbeknownst to him, her kindly frustration with two big idiots.

———

Half an hour later, after a riotous drive through wet London streets, under spray bottle-point, Crowley found himself in what he could really only describe as a nightmare. 

Anathema patted his back lightly. Her dark, curly hair was now tied up, and she was wearing a deep purple apron over her usual dark dress. 

“Suit up, demon.” she cheered, handing him a ruffled, floral apron with all too much eagerness. “Newt’s apron, it should do.” 

And so, still under the ever present threat of a jet of holy water to the back of the head, Anthony J. Crowley took the apron. He was surrounded by a gaggle of furtively glancing, middle-aged women. In a large, open room with rows of steel tables, and walls lined with ovens. In a cooking class. 

After much shuffling around amongst the students, Crowley and Anathema were paired at a table with two older women. Stainless steel bowls, spatulas, a kitchen scale, and aluminum cake pans were laid out neatly before the group. Crowley was decidedly avoiding any eye contact, feeling a hunger for small talk and gossip practically radiating off both of the older women. 

As though she couldn’t resist any longer, one woman, with graying chestnut hair and a kindly face, broke the awkward silence. 

“So, are you two a couple?” she asked slyly.

“Oh God no!” Anathema laughed. “I’m engaged!”

Giving Crowley a sidelong glance, and something of a smirk, Anathema added, “But we’re both here to learn how to make something nice for our partners.”

Crowley’s head jerked swiftly around, but before he could even open his mouth to sputter, both the older women gave coos of delight. 

“Oh, to be young romantics!” one chortled happily. 

“I’m not-“ Crowley began, but he was cut off by the instructor clearing her throat at the front of the room.

“Glad you all made it despite the dreadful weather. Welcome, everyone, to the beginner’s baking course…”

Anathema looked up at Crowley. “This won’t be too bad, honestly.” she said gently.

“Today we’re making a simple, two-layer chocolate cake with a nice chocolate frosting. Something easy enough to make, but decadent enough for special occasions. Birthdays, dinner parties, anniversaries…”

Crowley scowled. The angel liked cake. The angel _really_ liked chocolate cake. 

An hour of muttered cursing later, with chocolate batter on his face and shirt, the demon didn’t even notice when Anathema quietly tucked her handy spray bottle away into her bag.

* * *

**4\. Rum Punch with Citrus and Strawberries**

It was perfect weather for a summer picnic. Crowley and Aziraphale were standing on the front porch of the Young family’s house. The angel balanced several paper-wrapped gifts in his arms, while the demon simply, almost lazily, held a single large paper box by the navy blue ribbon it was tied with. 

The two hadn’t met for some time. But they had both been invited to the Antichrist’s twelfth birthday party, so they very sensibly drove out to Lower Tadfield together, in a rather awkward mood. 

But the awkwardness was brushed easily aside by Aziraphale’s excitement. His eyes were glittering and his cheeks flushed with anticipation; it had been many, many years since he’d last been invited to a birthday celebration (as himself, and not a questionable magician). He’d forgotten how much fun it was to pick out gifts. 

Crowley, on the other hand, looked as miserable as ever. 

“Why are we even here, knocking on the Antichrist’s door.” he growled, leaning against the porch railing.

“We’re, you know, godparents? In a way.” Aziraphale replied quickly, a touch of nervousness dampening his energy. “Remember, back when we… I mean, we got the wrong boy at first, but Adam still counts…” he trailed off. 

They were saved by the front door opening. The four children of the Them tumbled through the door, all clamoring to get a look at any potential gifts. Adam’s mother called out from inside the house. 

“At least let them in first, you rascals!”

———

The picnic was already in full swing as Aziraphale and Crowley stepped into the garden. A food-laden table stood on one side, with a cluster of old blankets and sheets draped across the grass nearby. There was a platter of little sandwiches and fruit, a batch of star-shaped shortbread, and a particularly enticing ham quiche (courtesy of Madame Tracy, who delightedly feeding Shadwell little bites of food, much to everyone else’s distress). Adam’s father was attempting to grill sausages one one side of the yard, while Dog whined at his feet. 

Anathema had brought a giant, crystal bowl of some kind of fruity red punch, complete with a crystal serving ladle. She was now labeling the bowl with a sign that read “Adults Only”, much to Adam’s chagrin. 

“It’s _my_ birthday! Why’d you bring something I can’t even drink?” he complained, piling a paper plate high with what was already his third serving of fruit and shortbread. 

“Can’t let you kids have all the fun, honestly.” Anathema grinned, patting the Antichrist’s head. “Besides, Crowley’s just brought in the main event!” 

Crowley grimaced, and set his ribbon-tied box on the table. Adam abandoned his plate of sweets, and hurried to untie the box. The cardboard flaps fell away. Aziraphale gave a little gasp, half in wonder, half in exasperation. Written in pale green icing, atop of a pristine layer of chocolate buttercream frosting,

_Happy 12th Birthday_ _Antichrist_ _Adam_

Adam flashed Crowley a knowing grin, before blipping the extra icing word out of existence as his mother approached. Mrs.Young, carrying a fresh set of plates and forks, gave a gasp as well when she saw the cake. 

“Oh, that looks marvelous, Mr. Crowley! Did you say the cake was chocolate as well?” 

Crowley nodded grimly. He wasn't sure how Anathema had managed to convince him to make the cake. He was not going to be nervous, not about this. Surely not. 

All too quickly for the demon, the birthday song had been sung, the cake had been sliced, and pieces passed around. Now the nervousness truly crept up. His shoulders tensed.

Anathema was the first to give a groan of delight as she took her first bite of cake, which was followed by many others. Perfectly moist, not overly sweet. The Them shoveled their slices down in a rare moment of focused silence, each intent on being the first to ask for a second slice. 

Crowley turned to the angel, and flashed him a small, crooked, sort of proud smile. To the demon’s surprise, Aziraphael’s eyes promptly welled with tears. 

Crowley started. “That bad?” he said, dismayed. 

“No, no, Crowley dear. Not at all.” Aziraphael replied quickly, swallowing his mouthful of cake and brushing at his eyes, “It’s delicious! I mean it, truly.”

———

They were both massively tipsy on punch, and laid side by side on a now emptied picnic blanket, listening to the sounds of the Them and Dog romping around the garden with new gadgets and toys. Shadwell and Madame Tracy had made their way home early, while Anathema, Newt, and Mr. and Mrs. Young sat chatting and drinking indoors. The sky bloomed vividly pink with dusk, and the pair stared up in an easy, content silence as it deepened to purple.

“Sometimes… I feel like I don’t deserve this.” Aziraphale said softly, breaking the quiet. 

“Deserve what?” Crowley replied sleepily, his arms folded leisurely behind his head. 

“All of this.” Aziraphale sighed, gesturing vaguely. “One morally compromised angel. In this moment. This peace. This just… contentment. All the things you do for me. You- your…”

He sighed again, folding his hands neatly atop his chest. 

“Well I do things for you because I like to.” Crowley replied simply, then caught himself. “Well, more that I happen to like things that happen to involve … well…you? Ugh.” He gestured vaguely as well. 

Aziraphale gave a light laugh at this. “I truly haven’t done anything worth all the things you’ve done for me, my dear. Truly.”

Crowley made a disbelieving noise. 

“You don’t have to deserve any of it! I mean, fast friends for 6000 years. We’re mates, yeah?” 

Aziraphale didn’t reply.

“And I like your sssmile. I like your laugh.” Crowley continued, suddenly feeling slightly unhinged.  The alcohol was egging him on in a way that didn't make any sense, but maybe it was the fact that they weren't looking at each other that kept him going. 

“I like it when you make sssstupid jokes.”

There was a long silence. Crowley could feel himself on the edge of erupting in flames. 'Stupid jokes'. Very touching, Crowley. Poetic even. He closed his eyes. The sky felt too vast above them. 

But when Crowley opened his eyes, Aziraphale had sat up, and was looking down at him. The angel’s face was cast in a slight, sunset-tinted shadow, his white blonde hair ruffling gently in the warm breeze. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut again, afraid to read the expression on Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale had startled himself, when he had teared up earlier that afternoon. 

For celestial beings, roaming the earth for thousands of years, existence was inevitably a lonely thing at times. Living among humans, but existing at a distance. It was a mercy that they'd found each other. But while Aziraphale felt himself secretly embracing, even enjoying, more and more of human oddities over the years, sometimes he felt that Crowley shrank away from them. Perhaps out of a fear of being hurt, or even, of being the one to have to do the hurting. 

In the demon’s small, proud grin over a successful cake, Aziraphale could feel Crowley reaching a out a little. Into this little group of people that had somehow become unusually bound together. A touch of the real nature the angel knew was hidden behind those sunglasses. An enormous, overwhelming wave of an affection crashed over him, and so Aziraphale’s eyes watered. He wanted to catch that smile and place it in his memory forever. 

Dozing in the grass, the angel had let his happy thoughts drift and settle in the pool of his mind. It was vivid, this feeling. A warmth he’d felt before, that had been building, faintly, in bits and pieces. A spark at the top of a wall, a flare at the sound of his voice, a fierce burning amidst the rubble of a church. Even a laughing, flickering glow at the taste of outrageously salty crepes. 

Now, gazing down at the demon, Aziraphale smiled to himself, at the certainty of this feeling, at its vastness. 

With one arm bracing himself, Aziraphale bent down over Crowley, and kissed him. 

Crowley’s eyes flew open again. It had been a light, shy thing. But he had felt it, the brush of Aziraphale’s hair against his face, for sure. Their eyes met, and Aziraphale was gazing straight into him with a tenderness more open than Crowley had ever seen. Usually he hung almost desperately to the moments when the angel let his pleasure glow unguarded. But this was almost too much to bear. The angel took one of Crowley' s hands. 

Crowley whispered, choked, “Angel, what -“ 

Aziraphale raised Crowley’s knuckles to his lips. Another shy, gentle thing. Crowley was frozen. 

Aziraphale laid back down into the blanket, still holding the demon’s hand. But this time, he laid with his face turned towards Crowley. The angel’s grip was so light. A little hesitant, a little uncertain.

“I am so grateful for you, Crowley, my dear.” he said quietly. 

What felt like an enormous pause passed before Crowley felt time slowly trickling forward again. He squeezed the angel’s hand back, tangling their fingers together. The slight damp of the grass he could feel through the picnic blanket, the faint smell of smoke. The heat, the chorus of crickets. He was going to take it all in and bask in it.

He turned to face Aziraphale, and gave the angel a long, hard look. Aziraphale looked back, open and unflinching. Their faces were so close now, that Aziraphale could see the glow of yellow eyes behind those dark lenses. 

Crowley returned that first kiss with one of his own. 

A taste of of punch and summer.

A radiance between them, to touch, at last, without burning. 

**Author's Note:**

> Each part just got longer and longer, idk what happened. Something came over me. This is only the 2nd piece of fic i’ve ever written in 20-something years of life, and the only one i’ve actually ever finished, so my apologies for any sloppiness. Fueled by the terrible curse that is Good Omens, I powered through. So many liberties taken. Thank you so much for reading!  
> Anathema was watching that whole last bit go down with a grin plastered across her face, jsyk.


End file.
